


Hunters and Hell Gates

by thegleegeneration



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Death, F/M, Language, Mentions of Character Death, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegleegeneration/pseuds/thegleegeneration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Parker is just a normal college student. But on Thanksgiving day, a sudden tragedy causes her to lose her whole family. Luckily, these two guys, Sam and Dean Winchester, arrived just in time to rescue her. </p><p>Thus began her journey as a Hunter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

The bell rang, signaling the end of Latin, my last class before Thanksgiving holidays. Students rushed out, excited to have a break from studying for once. But not me. Nope. I was taking my sweet time packing up, letting everybody else jostle one another to get to the lecture hall doors.

            The last thing I wanted was to leave campus. Call me crazy, but it’s the truth. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to leave my cozy little dorm room, or the delicious cafeteria food. But of course, I had no say in it—my parents wanted me home, then I’ll be home.

            Finally finished with packing my things, I shouldered my backpack and trudged up the stairs and out of the hall, basking at the warm sunlight bathing my face. It was one of those rare warm days, the ones when it doesn’t feel like winter. I loved it, and I would probably get more sun back home, but it’s just… _different_ somehow—more liberating to feel the warm sun on my skin, free from the cares of home. I would miss it, this feeling.

            Sighing, I turned towards the residence halls, and set off at a slow pace, wanting to soak in the sunlight for as long as possible.

 

I could hear the clamoring and chatting of my dorm mates as soon as I pushed open the doors. I’d been expecting it, readying myself for it during my walk. I didn’t hate the chatter; it was relaxing, actually. The dorm had always been like this during holiday season, the air filled with squeals and goodbyes, the floors squeaking under the weight of feet and suitcases. I could even pretend for a while that I had just arrived here, instead of returning to it a final time—well, the separation was only temporary, but still.

            The atmosphere was warm, toasty, and I took off my heavy coat and draped it over my arm as I made my way up the staircase to the third floor, where my room was located. As I passed through the hallway, I waved to the few people I knew, wishing them a good Thanksgiving as I walked past.

            At the end of the corridor was my room. Nailed to the door was a wooden plaque that read, “ _Allison and Rose. Do not disturb or fear for your life_.” The last bit was Allison’s idea—she really valued privacy, and I didn’t object when I suddenly found the thing nailed to my door one afternoon.

            I turned the knob and was greeted by the sight of two suitcases opened wide on the floor, clothes strewn across any flat surface, and my roommate scurrying here and there to collect the things she needed for the break. Her bare feet made soft padding sounds as she paced the room. Actually, I didn’t think Allison noticed I was already inside.

            “Hey, Ally,” I said, announcing myself. She raised her head, strands of curly blonde hair falling in front of her eyes at the movement. The rest of her thick hair was braided down until mid-back. Allison probably wrestled with it for fifteen minutes to get it in line.

            “Oh, hey Rose,” she said breathlessly, tucking the stray strands of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t see you there, sorry. Was too busy packing.”

            “Nah, it’s okay,” I replied, dodging the suitcases and a big duffel bag over to where Allison was and gave her a tight hug. She reciprocated, squeezing me a bit before we both let go. I made my way to the bunk bed, and settled on my bunk at the bottom, just flinging the navy blue coat onto the sheets. “How’s packing going?”

            Ally groaned. “Terrible.” She went over to her desk and opened a drawer, riffling through various papers and pens. “I can’t find the things I need. For example, I swear I hung my pink button-up shirt on the bunk _five minutes ago_ , and now I can’t find it.”

            “Huh,” I said, also wondering where it had gone. It wasn’t like Allison to lose things and—A pink colored piece of fabric stuck out from inside one of her suitcases. And I couldn’t help but laugh. “Allison?”

            “Yes?” she answered distractedly, now sifting through her closet, her upper body hidden from sight.

            “I found your shirt.”

            “ _What_?” She spun around. “Where?” And I pointed to the suitcase, the corner sticking out like a sore thumb among the white garments. Allison’s eyes followed my finger and she breathed a sigh of relief, bending over and snatching the shirt up. She folded it neatly and put it in the other suitcase, this one filled with neatly arranged clothes, shoes, and books. “Oh, god, Rose, thank you.”

            I chuckled. “You know, for someone getting straight A’s in all her classes, you can be _so_ scatterbrained sometimes.”

            “Hey, my brain needs rest! I’ve been looking at microscope slides all morning, and my eyes are tired. I won’t be able to sleep until I’m up in the air.” Allison continued packing up, bringing a few more books with her, and some notebooks. I watched her from the bed.

            Allison was tall, like 5’11”, fit with a model’s body. And whatever she did was graceful, like she was dancing to a silent symphony. Her blonde hair and ice blue eyes made her look like the Ice Queen, only she was as warm as summer. Everybody loved her—she was sweet, smart, pretty, and everybody was just drawn to her. I was practically the complete opposite, and to my surprise we got along okay, even helped each other out with editing our papers. Which was just awesome.

            “So,” Allison said, knocking me out of my thoughts. I blinked the blurriness out of my eyes and focused on her. She was already dressed in dark-wash jeans, around three layers of shirts, and rubber shoes. Her suitcases were propped up, and the duffel bag was sitting in front of them. After a moment of studying her, worried that she might get cold outside, I finally stood up.

            “So,” I repeated, holding bother her hands in mine. “Be careful out there, okay? When the sun’s gone it’ll be cold as Antarctica.”

            “Yeah, _Mom_ , I know.” Allison smiled, and then gathered me up in a hug, which I returned. “I’m gonna miss you, you know?”

            “Hey, we’re still gonna see each other, no biggie.” I pulled away, and returned to holding her hands, squeezing as I let them go. “Have a happy holiday, Allison.”

            “You, too, Rose,” she said and turned, grabbing the duffel bag and slipping the straps over the one of the suitcase's handle. Allison wheeled them towards the door, and reached for her red wool coat. I followed her, leaning against the doorway.

            She waved one last goodbye to me before disappearing around the corner. I gently closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply for a moment until my body decided that it wanted to lie down.

            I flopped down on my bed, feeling the springs squeak in the mattress, and let out a breath.

            The room was empty without Allison. Yeah, I was still here, but it was boring if you didn’t have anyone to talk to. I would’ve even settled with just feeling a presence in the room. At least I knew I wasn’t alone. But alas. Human beings should wait until morning because my flight back to Portland wasn’t until the next day.

            It would’ve been wise to pack. But I was just too lazy to move. Too lazy and too tired and too alone. So I just curled up on the bed with the room’s heater on full blast, and slipped into unconsciousness.


	2. TWO

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that it was dark. Like, _really_ dark. But I supposed it was to be expected because it _was_ winter, after all. As my still-sleepy eyes adjusted to the minimal light of the room, I patted the space near my head for the familiar curve of my alarm clock. It was like the old-fashioned ones, with the two bells on top of a small cylindrical body, so I was able to clutch it in my hand without any added fuss. I took it off the bedside table and squinted at the clock face.

            _2:30_.

            In the morning.

            One whole hour before the alarm was supposed to go off. I sighed, and dropped the clock on the empty mattress space beside me. I didn’t count on myself to wake up this early—it usually took me two alarms and a firm shake (or two) from Allison to get me up in time for class. Maybe it was nerves because I was going back home, or maybe because I slept at, like, 3 PM yesterday. Could be one, could be both.

            Then again, I should probably take this time to pack, since I neglected doing the chore the past few days. Which was bad, I get it. But really, I didn’t even want to go back in the first place—it seemed like nonsense to just pack stuff up, leave for a week, and then come back with the same stuff to unpack.

            Either that was my sarcastic self or just two-in-the-morning talk (which wasn’t really that uncommon an occurrence for me).

            I sighed, resigning myself to finally get on with it. There was a dread welling up inside me as I hoisted myself up and off the bed. Again, it was probably the fact that I was going to be home in a few hours.

            Wow. I was despicable.

            I mean, what good kid resists being able to see their family again after months? It was crazy—I was crazy. Then again, other kids weren’t raised the way I was.

            I lived in the same house in Portland my whole life: a little two-bedroom house off the main road with the rocking chairs on the front porch and the American flag flying on the roof and the white picket fence and everything. As far as I could tell, the house was even older than I was, maybe five or six years older. It was an old house, but it had its own charm, especially with it looking like a house straight from _Gone with the Wind_.

            I was raised there. It was where I did everything. Alone.

            See, my parents were the overprotective type. They wouldn’t let me get even an inch away from the house without adult supervision, and it sucked (more so when I was in my teen years, when I wanted to do nothing but spend time with my friends) because I was stuck in the house all day after school and on the weekends.

            And every Sunday we would go to this small church at the edge of town. My parents were really religious people, and because of that weekly ritual, I grew up pious as well. Despite not really wanting to go with them to church, I still kept it up. Maybe because my ever-growing curiosity wondered if there really was a God, and if he was hearing all the prayers I sent to him every night. Another part of it was because my parents never wanted me home alone.

            So yeah. For eighteen years of my life, I lived the same routine: wake up, go to school, go straight home, spend time with my parents, go to sleep, repeat the next day, and on Sundays attend mass.

            Hell knew I was tired of that routine. But because I didn’t want my parents to think badly of me and be disappointed in me, I kept it up, kept a mask up for them to see. For my friends at school to see. For the rest of the world to see. I could only peel it off when I was alone in my room and it was the middle of the night and I couldn’t sleep.

            And then the acceptance letter from Stanford University arrived. And after a number of debates and shouting matches, I finally got them to let me go there. (They originally wanted me to attend the local community college, but I flat-out said no.)

            So here I was, four years later, packing my bags for my week-long stay back home. The duffel I was going to use sat on the floor in the middle of the room, filled with clothes and shoes and books that only cluttered my room because I didn’t use them. Next to it was my backpack, the one I used for class. In it were important notes and a few books I borrowed from the library that I needed to write my paper that was due right after the school opens after the holiday.

            I was already dressed to go in dark jeans, a gray long-sleeved shirt under a white button-up, and the navy blue coat I was wearing this afternoon. My feet were warm and toasty in thick socks and boots.

            But when I looked at my clock, it was just a little past four. My flight was still a few hours away. Then again, the airport wasn’t exactly walking distance from here so I picked up my phone to call a cab.

            Better to be early than late.


	3. THREE

It was twenty minutes into the flight, and I was feeling _really_ sleepy. Maybe what woke me this morning was adrenaline due to the fact that I didn’t really want to do this in the first place.

            And so here I was, wedged between the window of the plane and a mid-thirties-looking guy who kept loudly whispering “Take care of it of it or your sorry ass will be an _unemployed_ sorry ass” into his earpiece, and then smiling at me as if nothing was amiss or awkward with the situation. Gosh, I wished I could sleep. I wished I was back in my dorm room and snuggling up to my big banana plushie.

            I shifted and turned my back to the man, looking out of the small window. The sky was all white, filled with fluffy clouds with the occasional splash of blue, like a tiny sapphire island dab smack in the middle of a silver ocean. _Beautiful_. Breathtaking, really, and I watched as the horizon slowly turned colors, from a cold sapphire to a warmer azure. I felt myself drifting off, feel my eyelids closing and I didn’t stop them, feel myself drowning out the world around me.

            The last thing I saw was a small patch of blue before I conked out.

 

Stanford was bigger on the inside, it seems. You could easily get lost in here, as I actually was at the moment. A note for future reference: _Don’t ever traverse the halls alone, Rose—you’ll just get lost._

            It was my first week as a college freshman, and I had no idea where all the rooms and lecture halls were (I mean, can you really blame me? Stanford was huge!). Yeah, there was a guided tour during orientation, but the guides were moving too fast for me to follow. But thank goodness they’d given us a map at the end—It was now being put to use as I was trying to find my way to my next class.

            I didn’t originally intend to get lost (but who ever did?), but I had a free hour until my next class so I decided to explore a bit. And then fate decided to have a little fun and got me a _little_ lost, which was unusual for me since I was pretty good at reading maps.

            Now here I was, going around and around in circles and trying to find my way back to where I started. The bag slung over my shoulder was staring to get heavier and heavier as time passed, my shoulder was getting sore from the weight of my bag (and no amount of switching the bag between my shoulders did any good), and my feet were killing me from all the walking.

            So after a few more feeble attempts at wandering around and failing to find the right pathway, I sighed and decided to just give up. And then I turned around and bumped into a wall or a pillar or something. And then a second later I realized it was a person.

            A _big_ person.

            “Oh, gosh, I am so sorry!” I hastily said, taking a few steps backward so I could clearly see the person’s face. And, _man_ , did I have to take a lot of steps back— _he was so tall!_ I wasn’t on the short side myself, but this guy must’ve been over six feet! Shaggy brown hair framed his chiseled face and a pair of hazel-green (I wasn’t sure which) eyes looked into my own. Good nose, and nice lips captured my attention. Yeah. This guy was _pretty_ good-looking.

            “Hey,” he said suddenly, snapping me out of my trance. I blinked. “Uh, sorry. I sorta bumped into you there.”

            “No, no,” I muttered. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, so technically _I_ bumped into _you_.” I was making wild hand gestures, waving an arm to him, to myself, even with the hand holding my map.

            He chuckled. “But I was still standing in the way,” he countered. “So it’s partly my fault, too. I’m so—,”

            “Sorry!” I said, beating him to it. Fine, it may have been a bit childish, but I couldn’t let him take the blame of something I did. “I’m not letting you apologize for me bumping into you. So there.” My hands fisted at my waist, and a smug smile made its way to my lips. Was I actually bantering over an apology with a guy I just met?

            The tall guy grinned once more and held out his hand. “I’m Sam Winchester. Nice to meet you.”

            I took his hand and shook it. “Rose Parker. Likewise.” His hand was warm. And big.

            Sam withdrew his hand and slipped it in his pocket. “So, what are you doing, walking aimlessly around a deserted hallway?”

            “Oh.” I lifted the hand holding the map and let it fall back to my side. “I was looking for my next class and I got a _teensy_ bit lost.”

            “What a coincidence,” he said, lifting his hand to reveal a map that I hadn’t noticed before. “So am I.”

            And then we just burst into laughter for a few moments before agreeing to help each other find the classroom that, as it turned out, we shared.

            We had ten minutes to spare when we finally found it, and we took adjacent seats at the back of the room.

            “Thanks for helping with the way here,” I whispered.

            “Nah, I was lost, too,” he objected. “We helped each other.” Sam fixed his pretty—brown? Green?—eyes on me. “So thank you, Rose.” He gave me a small smile and turned to the front of the room.

 

I slammed my head on the open book in front of me. “I can’t do it anymore, Sam,” I groaned out.

            A hand patted the back of my head. “Come on, Rose, you gotta do this,” Sam’s voice said, while running his fingers softly through my hair. It made me just want to succumb to the gentle strokes and sleep for a bit. And at the same time, it was almost enough to get me studying again. _Almost_.

            “No,” I grunted. Yeah, he had a point, I _should_ have been studying for finals (which was around 10 hours away, according to my watch), but going at it for _hours_ in the library without food was getting to me. If Sam didn’t let me go out for ten minutes to get something to eat, or at least give me a chocolate bar in the next second, all Hell would break loose.

            And then I felt something at the back of my head. I moved slightly to free an arm, aiming to find out whatever it was that was sitting on my head.

            But Sam said, “No, no, wait,” and I froze, a hand about halfway to my hair. “I’m trying to balance it, don’t move.”

            “Balance _what_?” I groped around my head for his hand and swatted it away. Then I slapped my hand over the object and raised my head.

            A chocolate Hershey’s bar was cradled in my hand. I looked at Sam, an eyebrow raised.

            But he just shrugged, a big grin on his face. “I was gonna make a pun, so I was trying to balance it on your head,” he said, a bit sheepish.

            “A pun?” Oh, this should be good. “What was it?”

            Another grin made its way to his face, indenting the dimples in his cheeks. “Brain food.”

            A beat of silence dropped between us. And then I snorted.

            The pun was bad. It was horrible, but so very Sam that I had to laugh.

            “Oh, man, Sam, you should stop,” I said between giggles.

            He shook his head. “No chance, Rosie. That was a good one!” he said, still chuckling a bit.

            I smiled at the nickname. As far as I knew, he was the only person who ever called me that. It made me feel warm inside, reassured, like we were really friends. Which was good. I never really had many friends growing up, so being close like this with Sam was refreshing. And surprisingly easy.

            Sam gestured to the chocolate. “Eat your chocolate,” he said. “I know you need the fuel.” And then he turned to his book and started writing a note in it.

            “I thought food wasn’t allowed in the library.” Sam raised his head a notch and put a finger to his lips, making a shushing sound.

            “Rose, it’s 2 in the morning, the day before finals. Do you really think the librarians will care if a hardworking student snuck a chocolate bar or two in the library?” And then he grinned, throwing me a wink, and then went back to writing.

            Shaking my head and smiling, I opened the chocolate bar and broke off a square. “Sam,” I called, and when he lifted his head again, I leaned over and pressed the edge of the square to his lips. Sam moved his lips and caught the chocolate between his teeth, then pulled away and grinned that infectious grin of his.

            I smiled. “Thanks for the brain food, Sammy.”

 

Smoke curled out from the windows of Sam’s dorm room. Bodies crowded all around me to an almost suffocating point. A fire truck stood by in case the fire broke out again.

            I could see all that. I could hear them. But it was as if I was underwater and everything was muffled.

            _Where was Sam?_

            I looked around, craning my neck to spot Sam’s shaggy hair. He should’ve been easy to spot, what with his towering height. But when my neck began to tire, I still couldn’t see him.

            _Where was Sam?_

I turned my back to the crowd and the truck and the dorms. A black car was parked far from the scene. From where I was I could just see a tuft of dark hair, hidden in the partial darkness of the night. Instantly I knew it was Sam.

            I scurried over to him, squeezing between the bodies huddled together from the fright and the cold. As soon as I stepped out of the fray, I pulled the thin jacket I was wearing more tightly around me. The air seemed to get colder the closer I got to Sam. I could almost taste his despair and fright as I breathed in.

            Sam was leaning against the trunk of the car, head down, his hands jammed in his pockets. I stopped right in front of him.

            “Sam?” I whispered. He didn’t move, just stayed still as a statue. “Sam, please. Look at me.” I unclenched a hand from my jacket and gently cupped his cheek, making him jump and look up.

            “Rose,” he whimpered, voice cracking.

            I moved quickly, circling my arms around his neck tightly. Sam wound his arms tight around me and pressed his face into my neck. I could feel him shaking, feel my neck getting wet as he started to cry. And I just stood there, my arms around him, trying to become a pillar for his anger and grief. Jessica was his girlfriend, of course he would be broken.

            The funny thing was, I didn’t even know they were dating, not until about an hour ago, when Allison had told me that there was a fire in Sam’s dorm room and that his girlfriend Jessica didn’t make it out. Sure, I’d felt a pang in my chest (I liked the guy, I was entitled), but Jess was a good friend. She was a sweet girl, and she didn’t deserve to die the way she did, didn’t deserve to die so young. She didn’t deserve to die, period.

            So I let Sam shake and sob in my arms. I let him cry out his grief.

            “I swear,” I heard him mumble, his face still against my neck, “I will find—whoever did this—and—and I’ll _kill him_.”

            I gently raked my fingers through his hair, shushing him, whispering for him to calm down, saying that things will get better.

            I didn’t tell him that it would all be okay. It seemed like an insult. Because no matter who died, as long as it was someone special to you, things will never be okay. Not really. There will always be a little part of you who will hang onto that sadness and never let go, however small a slice it is.

            Sam pulled his face away from my neck. “Rose,” he said, “ _this is your captain speaking_ —,”

 

“— _we have arrived at our destination_.” I jerked awake and took a short moment to gather my bearings. The plane seemed to have stopped—we were already on solid ground—and the passengers were already standing and removing their carry-on bags from the overhead compartments. I shook myself more awake and stood up with them.

            As I got out my backpack from the compartment, I thought about the dream/s I had. It was kind of weird, dreaming about them now, dreaming about Sam since I haven’t seen him in, what, a year? The night Jess died was the last time I ever saw him. It was like he just up and left. Dropped out of school, didn’t even leave a notice or anything.

            I tried to put the dreams out of my mind. I was going to spend a week with my family (unwillingly), which was already bad (yeah, what a bad kid, I know), and I didn’t need the thought of missing Sam to dampen my mood further.

            So with all that jammed in the back of my mind, I walked out the plane, which was essentially into the jaws of a lion who would very likely eat me up the first chance he gets.


	4. FOUR

The dinner table was so quiet you could hear the mating sounds of crickets from outside. I mean, if there _were_ any crickets. Apart from the usual conversation of “How was school, honey?” (“It’s good, Mom.”) and “Met any new friends, dear?” (“Nah. It’s too late in the semester to make friends.”), nothing remotely fascinating was happening.

            That was, until Mom broke out the dessert. Normally, we didn’t really eat dessert since it was always reserved for special occasions. Maybe a bowl of fruit here and there, but nothing major like sweets.

            So I was really confused when Mom came in with a tray and three servings of cherry pie, complete with vanilla ice cream.

            “Mom?” I asked, wary. Was there something I forgot—a birthday or an anniversary? I’d never been good with dates and numbers, and it freaked me out whenever someone would throw a birthday for a person.

            “Yes, dear,” she replied, preoccupied with setting down the plates. She put one in front of me and I couldn’t help but inhale the sweet scent of cherries and butter. Mom always made a lot of good food, but her pies were the best. When I was a kid I would eat up to two or three slices before I got into a pie-induced food coma.

            I forced myself to get my train of thought moving again and said, “Is there a date I forgot again? Because I’m ninety percent sure there isn’t.” On second thought, make that sixty percent sure.

            “No, honey,” Dad said, a huge grin on his face. My father was a happy man, always smiling and laughing, but this smile was probably the biggest one I’ve seen yet. “You’re in the clear.”

            “Then what’s with the pie?”

            The chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as Mom sat back down. “We have some big news, Rose,” she said, her smile as wide as Dad’s.

            Big news? Like what? Did they win the lottery? Did Dad get a promotion? Did they enter a contest on TV and win a trip to the Bahamas? I tried to think of all the possible events that could warrant celebratory pie. But despite the raging thoughts in my head, I still managed to mold my face into a clam mask. “What is it?”

            My parents looked at each other in the gooey way that parents do and held hands on the table.

            And then my mom smiled and looked at me and said, “I’m pregnant, sweetie.”

            I was silent and still for maybe a minute. I had to repeat what she said three times over—it seemed my brain short-circuited with Mom’s announcement. I mean, for _ten years_ I’d wanted a sibling. I wanted someone to fawn over and take care of and play with.

            And now I was going to have it.

            _I was going to be a big sister_.

            I shrieked. I was babbling nonsense, I knew, and I temporarily blacked out for a while, but when I came to, I was hugging my mom. And then my dad. And I just felt so happy and proud of them. I knew they wanted this, way more than I did, and I just felt so happy.

            If this was why my mom was so adamant about me going home for Thanksgiving, then I’m glad I went. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

 

The excitement and glee I’d felt earlier tonight had dimmed down considerably as soon as I stepped into my room again. The reason: my bags, so innocent, so docile, sitting on my bed. They just reminded me of how much I missed Stanford, my dorm, my very few friends, even my terrible professors. And thinking about them had me remembering the essay for my literature elective I had to write, and making me groan loudly.

            I sluggishly removed my bags from the bed and collapsed on top of it, just staring at the ceiling, like how I always used to do when I was a teenager, when I had a really bad day or when I just needed to contemplate about my life. I tried to regulate my breathing, in and out a few times, forcing myself to be happy. But I just couldn’t. I closed my eyes and started thinking. Just thinking.

            I loved my family. So much. I liked how I was raised, liked the person I turned out to be in the long run because of my parents’ faith and the way they brought me up. But now I just wanted nothing more than to finish college and get a place of my own, be away from the small circle that was my family. Maybe it was the feeling of independence that living in a dorm for most of the year gave, but I just really wanted out.

            A knock on the door had me jumping slightly and making my eyes open. “Yes?” I called, raising my voice enough to be heard just outside the door.

            “Honey?” It was my mom. She slowly opened the door a crack and peeked a green eye inside. When she saw that I was awake she stepped fully inside and closed the door, leaning her back against it as she looked at me, still sprawled all over the teal-colored bed sheets. She cracked a smile and made her way to the bed, sitting on the foot of it, and taking my hand.

            I pulled myself up and stared at Mom. Rose and Christina Parker. We could pass for sisters. Twins, actually. We had the same soft brown hair and vivid green eyes, a tanned complexion, and sometimes we even smiled the same way. I was just taller, having gotten the increased height and build from my dad. Only the faint lines on Mom’s face gave away her real age, but she still looked as beautiful as if she were only a teenager.

            Mom squeezed my hand, and looked at me with worried eyes. “Are you feeling all right, sweetheart?”

            I could swear my heart rate increased when Mom said those words. I didn’t want to tell her that I wanted out. As much as I wanted to stay in the college dorms and never come back home, I loved my mother much, much more.

            Instead I sighed and said, “It’s nothing, Mom.” I gave her a soft smile hoping to reassure her. “Just a little tired from travelling.” Mom gave me a look, totally not buying my excuse. She raised an eyebrow at me, and I tried my best to persuade her that everything was fine and dandy. “Really, Mom, I’m serious.”

            Okay, not exactly what I was going for, but I tried. I gave her a smile that I hoped was the picture of “No, Mother. I promise I didn’t throw a party while you and Father were away.” Although I think it came across as “Oh, the lamp? No, I just bumped into it and it crashed. Some guys from the party totally _did not_ use it as a baseball bat.”

            Mom looked at me a moment longer, waiting for me to say more. But I just kept smiling, not letting on what I really wanted to say, which basically my life was until I left for college. I had always kept quiet with what was plaguing my mind, even if it was a seriously messed up. I thought that I would just be a burden to other people if I told them what was on my mind so I ended up keeping mum about it all.

            That was, until I met Sam Winchester. And suddenly the dreams came back, clear as a bright summer day in California. The first time we met. The last finals we studied together for, back in second term of sophomore year. And the last time I saw him. They kept replaying themselves in my mind, a constant loop that I couldn’t seem to stop. I didn’t even realize that I zoned out until I felt my mom shaking my arm, failing to register the multiple times she called my name.

            I immediately smoothed out my crinkled brows and tried for an innocent look, like I wasn’t thinking about a petty crush on a really handsome guy at college who had a girlfriend that died. Who was also simultaneously gone from her life for a year.

            “Yeah, Mom?” I said, my mother’s visibly worried look etching itself into her mind. I felt a pang of regret for making her worry, even if there wasn’t really anything to worry about, especially on her part.

            “Are you sure you’re okay, honey?” she asked.

            I was about to answer, “Yes, I’m fine,” for probably the tenth time that day. It would probably be safer if I just told the truth, but not the whole truth—I couldn’t make Mom carry another burden, another worry, when she was pregnant with my little sister. _My little sister_.

            So I swallowed the small lump in my throat, swallowed down that longing to just say what I wanted to say, and sighed, not wanting to keep up pretenses any longer.

            “Could I just… Could I just have some time alone, Mom?” I looked at her with pleading eyes. I could see that I _clearly_ failed in trying to not make my mother worry. Which made me worry more about her.

            It looked like Mom was about to say something else, but she just squeezed my hand one more time before leaning up to kiss my forehead and standing up. Mom tossed me one more solemn smile before she closed the door.

            When I was sure Mom was safely out of earshot, I plopped back down on the bed and tried again to forget what I wanted to but couldn’t say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOAH! Very sorry for not updating in _such_ a long time! I was just really busy with school and my org work and papers (yes, this deserves its own category) and other stuff that I couldn't really get to writing.
> 
> I'd started on this chapter once (sometime during November?) but I just couldn't find any good transitions, so I stopped, and I kept getting blocked, and schoolwork picked up and everything was just hell and I got buried in six feet of snow and am just beginning to dig myself out. 
> 
> Again, I'm so sorry this chapter took so long! I hope you all like it--and have more patience with me in the coming year.
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone! <3 <3


	5. FIVE

It was a few days before Thanksgiving when I started feeling that something was going to go wrong. Not like, Mom’s turkey was going to get burnt, or Dad forgetting to but cranberry sauce. It felt like something big. Maybe it was a habit of me to worry too much, but I couldn’t help it. My head sometimes goes overboard with different possibilities.  

            A knock sounded on my door. “Rose, you all right?” my mom’s voice said. I currently had my head face-down on the desk, trying to get started on my paper. So far I had one word in the document and it was _No_ , and I was going back next week. So add this to the stuff getting tossed around in my mind.

            I turned my head to the side and called out, “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.” I repressed a groan at the lie. “Just writing up my essay.” Or trying to, at least.

            It was quiet for a while, and I thought at first that Mom had gone, but then I heard my door creak and then the sound of footsteps on wood. I didn’t lift my head up, knowing it was just her. A second later I felt warm arms wrap around me, and I let myself relax in the comfort of my mother’s arms.

            “Take it easy, okay, honey?” she whispered near the back of my head. “You’ve still got a week. And it’s Thanksgiving—you need a break.”

            “Yeah, but I need to pass this as soon as I get back.” I muttered at the old desk, kicking one of its legs as I did.

            I felt her smooth her hand up and down my back, easing me further into relaxation. “This is why I asked you to come down here in the first place, to take some time off. You’ve been working so hard lately, you barely even have time to message us during the semester.” I felt her gently pull my shoulder and I acquiesced, sluggish and lazy, sitting back on the chair. “Relax, okay, Rose?’

            I looked up at her, seeing an exact copy of my green eyes gazing worriedly at me, and I sighed and said, “Yeah, fine, okay.” I turned away and closed my laptop.

            Mom sighed, apparently content with my answer, and patted my shoulder twice, a smile on her face. As she moved to the door I stood up, announcing, “I’m helping you with the turkey, and you’re not gonna stop me!” And with that, I dashed out the door, she sound of my mom’s laughter trailing behind me.

 

The rest of the day was spent with me in the kitchen, helping my mom with the food for Thanksgiving. We moved like we’d been doing this for years, which we were. She’d started letting me help her cook when I was old enough, and since then we’d been doing the holiday dishes together. At first I was worried that I might not remember how to do this thing, but after the initial moments of fumbling, I found that I could still cook with my mom like I was still a teenager.

            When I wasn’t in the kitchen chopping potatoes, or was just waiting for something to finish cooking, I was on the couch with my dad, watching bad reality TV. I missed these moments. I wasn’t as close to my dad as I was with my mom (maybe because of my gender, or maybe my mother and I just had a lot more in common), and I cherished these TV show marathon sessions or movie binge-watching or just plain pigging-out on the couch. If my happy place with my mom was in the kitchen, the couch was basically heaven for Dad and me.

            And so went the days. And after each that passed, I collapsed on my bed, spent from cooking or decorating or walking around the neighborhood and chatting with old friends. I hadn’t seen these people in such a long time, so I figured, why not make the Christmas season a prime time to catch up? Eventually though, things got a little boring, and I was back at my desk in no time, once again trying to write my paper.

            I got in a total of 27 words in when I decided to give up for the night. I was just saving the document on my laptop when I heard my phone ring.

            Well that was odd. Why would anybody call me during the holidays? I mean, it was _Thanksgiving_ , for Pete’s sake. They should be enjoying the rare vacation day with their families, not calling their college friends that they would see in a week anyway (wow, what a hypocrite).

            And what’s more, not many people even know my number. See I wasn’t the most sociable person around, and I had only given my number to, like three people in college. Plus, when I looked at the number, it said _ID Not Listed_.

            Also, it was the middle of the night.

If this whole thing wasn’t sketchy, I didn’t know what was.

And then the ringing stopped, and I felt like I was being blessed by the heavens to get away from a bad situation.

But soon enough the ringing started up again, this time when I was shutting down my computer. The ringing was getting on my already frustrated nerves, and against my better judgment, I ended up answering it.

“Hello?” _Who are you and why are you calling me at this time of night_ , I wanted to say.

“Rose?” Wait. This voice was familiar. I knew this voice. “Rose, is that you?”

            “Sam?” This was unreal. Sam Winchester was calling her? _Now_ , a year after he just up and left Stanford? This was totally, absolutely _not_ real, I was sure of it.

But still. My heart fluttered when I heard him say my name. It was weird because it didn’t seem real, but I hadn’t heard it in so long, and hearing his voice again made me feel like I was being covered in a warm and fluffy blanket.

            “Rose, thank God you answered,” he exclaimed on the other end of the phone. “Look, I need your help.” Help? What would he need my help for?

            “Why, what is it?” That trickle of fear and worry I felt in my gut earlier was returning. I wanted so badly to just end the call because of the growing paranoia, but I forced myself ignored it and waited for Sam’s reply.

            “Jess is missing,” he said simply; I froze.

            “Sam… What are you talking about?” My hand was shaking, not sure what to do.

            “Jess, my girlfriend. She’s missing,” Sam pressed on. “You’re the only person I can trust out of everyone I know, Rose, please.” There was a pause, filled with questions I had to ask, but just couldn’t get past my mouth. “Help me find her.” I could swear Sam’s voice broke at the end.

            My hand was still shaking, reminding myself of every instinct that said helping Sam was a bad idea. It was _my_ Sam, I knew it was, even if what he was saying was extremely hard to believe. My grip on the phone tightened, and took a deep, calming breath.           

“O-okay, Sam,” I said, my voice cracking on his name. Despite what I just breathed into the phone, I was still refereeing an internal war between my gut feeling and rational thinking.

            “Is it okay for me to stop by there tomorrow?” I was about to say yes on impulse, but Sam kept going. “I know it’s Thanksgiving, but I really need your help on this.” Another pause. “Please, Rose.” I could hear the pleading in his voice—that was genuine fear and worry right there. So who was I to reject him after all the times I needed his help on my worst days?

            “Yeah, Sam, you-…” I had to stop and coach my voice on hot to stop breaking and stuttering. “You can stop by. And… you can stay as long as you need, until we find Jess.”

            A relieved sigh sounded passed through the line. “Thank you, Rose,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Uh-huh, see you,” I whispered. And my hands were shaking and then I lost control of them and fumbled with my thumbs until I managed to end the call with a hard press of a button.

            I let out a shaky breath as I slowly slid to slumping on my chair. What exactly was Sam talking about? Jess was missing—that was just not possible. It just didn’t add up in my brain. If I was confused earlier, now I was outright questioning reality because things just didn’t make sense. Was Sam really okay? Because I couldn’t help but wonder if Sam got hit on the head really hard. Jess…

            Jess was dead. I saw the remnants of the fire and the smoke. I heard the news report. Heck, I was clutching a sobbing, six-foot-four Sam Winchester in my arms the night it happened. I knew _in my gut_ that Jessica Moore was dead.

            But this was Sam. This was _my_ Sam, and no matter what happened to him—if he got amnesia or he just couldn’t accept her death or something, I would be there. He helped me get through so many tough times, and I was sure as heck going to help him deal with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have made a decision.
> 
> I'm gonna post a new chapter every month or so, since I noticed that the last time I updated it was on January 8th. It's a day late, but I was really busy last night.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! :3


	6. SIX

The next morning I wracking my brain, trying to figure out how exactly to tell my parents that I invited one of my old college friends to Thanksgiving. One who just packed up his stuff and left on the night his girlfriend died from a fire. One who I haven’t talked to for a year until last night.

            As I dressed for breakfast, I decided to just take the plunge, dive right in. I figured I could answer any question they would hurl at me.

            And I could always tell the occasional lie. It wouldn’t hurt.

 

The smell of frying bacon hit my nose like a 100-wheeler truck on an 80 mile-per-hour stretch of road. It’s been _so long_ since I’ve had bacon, and it smelled like absolute heaven. It had been… what, five months since I ate any? I missed the sweetness and smokiness and the _greasiness_ of it, I had shot down the stairs and into the kitchen in no time at all. I saw Mom laugh when she spotted me heading for her and the cooking bacon. I did that all the time, when I was a kid, when Mom was cooking bacon or making a pie. This time was no different as I saddled up behind her, braced my hands on her shoulders and just _breathed_ in the delicious scent.

            I moaned. “Ugh, that smells delicious, Mom! Can I have a bite?”

            She laughed again. “Hold your horses, dear, they’ll be ready soon.”

            “I’ll help set up,” I said, and moved away to gather the plates, glasses, and silverware to set them up around the table.

Mom and I finished our tasks at the same time, and as soon as we did, Dad appeared, already dressed for work. We all sat down at the table laden with pancakes, bacon and eggs, orange juice and coffee, and toasted white bread. Typical American breakfast.

The first thing I did was spear myself a few strips of bacon and a couple pancakes. As I ate, I remembered the phone call last night, and that I still had to tell my parents about it. I helped myself to some orange juice before clearing my throat.

“Mom? Dad?” They both looked up at me, not stopping their chewing, but I could tell I had their attention. “Um, one of my college friends called last night, and asked if he could crash here for a while.” I paused. “Is that okay?”

“Why, what’s the matter?” Dad inquired.

I gave a shrug. “I don’t know exactly why he asked for lodging, but I think it’s because of his girlfriend?”

“What about her?” my mom asked, biting into a piece of bread.

After a short internal debate on whether I should tell them, I decided to just some out with the truth. “Uh, she died. Last year.” Here was the tricky bit. “She was in Sam’s dorm room when a fire broke out. She didn’t make it.”

“Oh dear,” Mom gasped, a hand over her mouth as she continued to chew. “Poor girl. Does your friend Sam know about this?”

“Yeah, he does. But I think it’s more trauma than anything.” I thought he’d accepted her death already and moved on, but apparently not. By this time I completely lost my appetite. Not even the bacon could help me get it back.

“He can stay here, Rose. As long as he needs,” Dad said, eyes full of pity. But I knew that despite how sorry he was feeling, he was thinking about how unsafe it was for me to keep staying in a dorm. I suspected that by later tonight or tomorrow, he’d bring up the subject of me quitting Stanford and enrolling for Oregon University for my last year taking my Masters’. I didn’t think he cared how difficult and _expensive_ it would be to do that. I knew he cared about me and my safety, but I didn’t want to leave Stanford. And no amount of forcing me to back out is getting me out of that school.

“When’s he supposed to be here, dear?” Mom asked.

“Tomorrow,” replied, nodding my head, but worrying that they wouldn’t allow Sam to stay here tomorrow. It _was_ Thanksgiving, after all.

“Oh, then I better get the guest room ready,” she quipped around a bite of bacon. “We’ll have to make more food, Rose.”

I smiled at that. “Of course I’ll help you, Mom.”

“Then let’s get started after breakfast.”

 

The rest of the day was spent preparing the guest bedroom for Sam’s arrival tomorrow, and cooking extra food (which I thought was a little ridiculous because Mom and I had already made enough food for a small army). That night, as I was writing my paper (finally) my phone vibrated again. I answered it in a hurry, knowing it was Sam who was calling.

            “Rose?” he whispered at the other end.

            “Hi, Sam.”

            “Is it okay for me to go to your place tomorrow?” He sounded completely unsure, and I had to fight a smile. Sam had always been a worrier.

            “Yeah, you’re good. Do you have any paper? I’ll tell you my address.”

            “Uh, yeah, just a second.” I could hear some shuffling and then Sam’s voice drifted into my ear again and I gave him directions to my house.

            There was a pause after I rattled off my address. I could only hear breathing and subtle throat-clearing from the other end. And then Sam whispered again, “Thank you, Rose. I didn’t really want to bother you, especially on Thanksgiving, but with everything that happened with Jess and leaving, I just didn’t know what to do.”

            “It’s really no problem, Sam. It’s the least I could do, what with all the times _you_ helped _me_ back in Stanford. You remember that time with Professor Thomas from my Lit 101 class? When she—,”

            “When she misplaced your research paper and you had to redo it because someone accidentally spilled coffee on your laptop and it _exploded_ right in front of your eyes?”

            I could feel myself smile. “And when I finished that one and gave it to her, it turned out she accidentally filed it with the wrong class?” I groaned. “That was horrible.”

            He chuckled. “Yeah, Rosie, of course I remember that. You told me back at that famous coffee shop on campus and finished _three_ large Americanos before you even told me.”

            I had to laugh at that. “Yeah, that was a bad day. And you helped me make a game plan and monitored my caffeine consumption.”

            “Nah, it was no big deal.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

            “Um, excuse me, but I distinctly remember you making me a _real breakfast_ on the day I was supposed to turn it in.” Oh, I wasn’t exaggerating—after a week of fast food take-out and probably fifty cups of coffee, he’d brought me a _real_ breakfast with _real_ hashed brown and _real_ sausage and eggs and _real_ bacon and, best of all, _real pancakes._ I was eternally grateful for that, to be honest. I needed the strength. It was the last push I’d needed to finish that damned paper.

            “I told you, it was no big deal,” he said offhandedly.

            “I’m still wondering how you did it. I mean, I know your dorm room didn’t have a fully-functional kitchen, and it was impossible to use the dorm cafeteria to make that.” He was quiet, and then a theory, however unbelievable, came to me. “You used the cafeteria, didn’t you?”

            Sam made a noise that made my eyes slightly bug out. “I… _might_ have.”

            “ _Sam! You didn’t!_ ” I almost yelled.

            And then we were both laughing and laughing because of the simpler times, because it was nice thinking back to these moments, because it was nice to just _talk_ after a year of no communication. I finally moved to my bed because my legs were falling asleep. I flopped down on the mattress, still laughing, my essay forgotten.

            When we finally sobered up enough to catch our breaths, I could feel my heart thumping slightly faster than usual, no matter how much I wanted it to stop doing that. I swore to myself, after Sam left and didn’t come back, that I would get over him and not feel these feelings again, but it was just too damn difficult. He was still funny, still caring and considerate, still himself and I just missed it. I missed _him_.

            We talked a bit more and hung up when the clock was close to midnight, promising that we’d see each other tomorrow because we were, finally.

            I went to bed without any worries.

 

I spent majority of the next afternoon trying to make myself presentable. I took a long shower, I put on some make-up (at least, the make-up I knew how to apply), tried curling my hair (which led to it falling straighter than ever), and picking out the perfect dress for Sam to see me in, and settled with a plain, off-white dress with a baby collar and cuffed half-sleeves. It perfectly showed off my figure and made my skin look even more tanned. I paired it with my black flats for a simple, but elegant look. Granted, this was something I would wear to church, but I didn’t really have anything that was festive enough for any event, usually just black and white dresses.

            I looked at the clock (which I did every few minutes) and scrunched my nose at the time. It was already 4:42 and Sam could be here any minute. I looked myself over one last time.

            Well it was still me, same short brown hair and green eyes, same face full of freckles, same tall and slim frame that you would think moved elegantly but was actually really clumsy, same me. I was just wearing fancier than usual clothes.

            I took a deep breath and said to myself in the mirror, “Calm down, Shay.” I always used my middle name for when I needed to give myself a talk in the mirror. It felt more personal that way, considering no one calls me that—just me. “You can do this. It’s just Sam. Granted you haven’t seen each other for more than a year, but that’s okay. You’re okay, you can still act like friends, which you are.” I smiled, Mirror Me grinning, too. “You got this.”

            And then I ran down the stairs, just in time for Mom to call me and help her out.

 

It was a little after five when I heard a knock on the door. Dad, who had been tending to the fireplace, began to straighten and head for the door, but I stopped him short, running over and giving him a loose hug. “I got it, Dad.”

            I braced myself for the confrontation of a lifetime, and opened the door, a smile immediately breaking on my face.

            “Hey, Sam,” I greeted softly.

            Sam Winchester smiled, bundled up in layers of jackets and a deep red scarf around his neck. “Hey, Rose. Happy Thanksgiving.”

            “Happy Thanksgiving.” And then, as if I couldn’t control myself anymore, I just stepped forward and crushed Sam in a hug. He responded in kind, hugging me tight. I didn’t want to let go, and I gathered he didn’t want to either.

            He smelled different than the last time I hugged him. Back then he smelled like smoke and sweat. Now my nostrils were filled with some sort of musk and old leather. I preferred this scent. Much better memories to come from this.

            We finally let go of each other and I hurriedly asked him to come in. He shed his two jackets and the scarf; I hung them on the hooks by the door, but not before taking in his black button-up and dark jeans combo.

            I led him into the dining room and introduced him to my parents. Thankfully my parents didn’t mention anything about Jessica’s death, as per my request at dinner last night.

            “I hope you’re ready for a big dinner, Sam,” my dad said, gesturing for all of us to sit down. Sam sat to the left of my dad, and Mom sat on his right, me beside her. “Tina and Rose make a deadly combo when they team up in the kitchen.”

            I blushed at his praise, and reddened eve more when Sam looked at me with a sly grin.

            And then he looked back at my father, determination in his eyes. “Bring it on, Sir.”

            Yep. I’ve fallen back down the rabbit hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, next part next part. I have to finish Chapter 7 now.


	7. SEVEN

Dinner was more enjoyable than I originally thought. My mom and dad were accommodating and enthusiastic about Sam, but didn’t pry. Sam was great, all polite and courteous, even going so far as to offer to help with the dishes (which Mom and I flat-out refused to let him do). The food itself was awesome, cranberry sauce just sweet, mashed potatoes just creamy.

Even _I_ thought I was doing pretty well. I mean, I was civil, polite, I slid back into that playful relationship Sam and I had back in college. It got me thinking of all the times Sam and I had ramen for dinner, and that one time that I had actually cooked a meal for Sam’s birthday. I distinctly remembered him giving me something then, because it seemed absurd that _he_ would give _me_ something for his birthday. I forgot what it was, but I was pretty sure I still had it. So I excused myself from the after-dinner wine to head upstairs and look for it.

After about ten minutes of looking, I finally found it, tucked inside one of my old notebooks. It was a necklace with a small pentagram charm on it. It looked really old, especially since I haven’t been wearing it for months. Sam had given it to me during our first year, and I never really took to wearing it, but I still kept it safe. Anything that Sam gave me needed to be kept under lock and key. Or at least somewhere that’s secure.

I put it on and checked myself in the mirror. Oddly enough, it went with the dress. The pendant was made of, maybe bronze or copper? And the design was simple, the way I liked it. But I didn’t have much time to admire it on me; I already took too long to find it.

But as I was a step down the stairs, I heard a thump. Maybe someone accidentally knocked over a lamp or something, and I rushed downstairs to check in and help.

It was quiet when I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and I cautiously peeked around the corner into the living room. What I saw made me rush upstairs as soon as possible, as quietly as possible.

As soon as I got into my room I gently pushed the door closed and made a beeline for my closet and curled into a ball in a dark corner, trying to process what I saw mere minutes ago while feeling the floor for the small knife I kept in it. My hands shook as I searched.

Blood. On the plush white rug. Smeared across the coffee table. Splattered all over the snowy couch. All over my mother’s green dress and my father’s pink shirt. Struck across their faces. The image had me shuddering, turning into myself even more.

I couldn’t cry. The tears wouldn’t come. I couldn’t understand why—I just saw my dead parents sprawled across our living room and—…

And _Sam_. Sam standing in the middle of the room. Sam standing over my parents’ dead bodies. Sam’s jeans speckled with blood. Sam… Sam… Sam. Sam. _Sam. Sam. SamSamSamSamSam_ —

A dry sob wracked my body and I quickly slapped a hand to my mouth to stop any other noises from coming out. I held myself tighter, straining my ears to hear any sign of life.

Life. Who was I kidding? My parents were dead, so was my unborn sibling. And I was fairly certain that Sam was dead inside since he didn’t seem to feel any remorse when he gutted my family.

He might as well kill me too.

Footsteps echoed through the empty halls, periodically stopping—Sam was probably going through every room looking for me. The footsteps always continued.

Until they stopped.

And then the door to my room opened, creaking loudly on its hinges. I froze, putting my hands to my sides, forcing myself to be as still as possible. In my hastiness to squeeze myself further into the corner of the cabinet, the heel of my hand came into contact with cold hard steel. I immediately gripped it in my shaking hand.

The footsteps continued into my room and then stopped somewhere in the middle. The sounds of Sam flipping open the comforter and throwing the pillows around could be heard clearly from behind the door. I knew that at some point he would he would check the closet and find me and kill me.

Oh, my goodness. If Sam didn’t kill me I would probably kill myself to get away from this nightmare.

The door flew open and the first thing I saw was Sam’s eyes, silver in the fluorescent lighting of the room. The next thing I knew I was jabbing the knife into his thigh and bolting from my perch in the closet. A piercing wail followed me out and down the stairs.

I turned left and almost reeled back, the smell of iron hitting my senses. Tears blurred my eyes as I ran straight to the door, almost tripping over the blood-soaked rug on the way there.

I got to the door just as Sam’s footsteps rushed down the stairs. I threw the door open and immediately collided with a man in a leather jacket, stumbling back at the impact. He caught me just in time, and took in my expression, haggardness, and the sure shock and fear in my eyes.

“Where is it?” he demanded, and the hardness of his tone made me jump. I pointed to the stairs. He glanced to the place I was pointing before looking into my eyes and saying, “Go outside, get in the car, and _do not_ go out, no matter what you hear.” He shook me slightly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I said shakily, my first words since I went upstairs.

The man gently shoved me outside the door, while pulling a gun from his jeans. My eyes widened, and I stopped for a moment before heeding his instructions and headed out the door.

He didn’t specify which car was his, but the sleek black classic number was a dead giveaway. As far as I knew the cars in this neighborhood were either Toyotas or Nissans, the generic suburban cars. Something like an old car that gleamed _this much_ in the sunset wasn’t exactly the norm.

So I made a beeline for it. Heaven knew the last thing I wanted was to stay out here, vulnerable, but I doubted he would have left the keys in the ignition, nor would he take kindly to me leaving with his car (and if I _did_ manage to pull that off, he’d probably come after me with that gun of his).

As my fingers came into contact with the cold steel, another, bigger hand grabbed my wrist and spun me around, locking my hands tightly to my side.

“Rose?” a voice said, and I didn’t need a face to know who it was because I knew that voice. I knew that voice and I didn’t ever want to see its owner’s face again.

He killed my mother, my father, my unborn sibling—heck, maybe he even killed that guy with the gun. It would be fitting if he just offed me, too.

“Let me go,” I yelled. “You monster, let _go of me!_ ”

And he miraculously did. And I pushed him back, which did nothing because he was as big as ever. I could’ve run. I could’ve just turned and run away. But I didn’t and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell why.

“Monster?” I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to look into his eyes and see the lack of remorse in them, the lack of guilt for murdering my family. So I kept my head down, my arms around my chest to keep warm.

But willpower could only last so long, and I gave in; I looked into his eyes, his beautiful hazel eyes that I couldn’t believe held the soul of a murderer. Sam looked so worried, so surprised, so hurt that I called him a monster. Could he blame me, though? He killed my family, killed that man.

He might kill me.

I opened my mouth to challenge him, to just goad him into doing the deed already, but all the excitement—seeing my parents’ bloody figures across the living room, seeing _Sam_ covered in their blood—seemed to have gotten to me and before I could get a word out, I dropped to the ground.

The last thing I saw was Sam moving forward to catch me, and the man in the leather jacket coming out of the house with Sam in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey, guys! Sorry about this chapter being so _so_ late. School was bugging me for the past few weeks, and I couldn't really get to writing anything. Hope y'all enjoyed this one!


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